He ground his teeth, and stepped back to the wall, to have all the assailants in the front. He was sternly resolute, though very pale, and, by a natural impulse, put his hand into his side-pocket, to feel if he had a weapon. The knife was there, the deadly blade with which his enemies themselves had armed him; and, to those who could read faces, there was death in the pale cheek and gleaming eye of this young man, so sorely tried.
At this moment, a burly gentleman walked into the midst of them, as smartly as Van Amburgh amongst his tigers, and said steadily, “What is to do now, lads?” It was Cheetham himself, Bayne knew he was in the office, and had run for him in mortal terror, and sent him to keep the peace. “They insult me, sir,” said Henry; “though I am always civil to them; and that grinder refuses to grind my blades, there.”
“Is that so? Step out, my lad. Did you refuse to grind those blades?”
“Ay,” said the greyhound-man sullenly.
“Then put on your coat, and leave my premises this minute.”
“He is entitled to a week's warning, Mr. Cheetham,” said one of the decent workmen, respectfully, but resolutely; speaking now for the first time.
“You are mistaken, sir,” replied Mr. Cheetham, in exactly the same tone. (No stranger could have divined the speakers were master and man.) “He has vitiated his contract by publicly refusing to do his work. He'll get nothing from me but his wages up to noon this day. But YOU can have a week's warning, if you want it.”
“Nay, sir. I've naught against you, for my part. But they say it will come to that, if you don't turn Little up.”
“Why, what's his fault? Come now; you are a man. Speak up.”
“Nay, I've no quarrel with the man. But he isn't straight with the trade.”